Real (Touch Me and See)
by celeste9
Summary: After three months of thinking his boyfriend was dead, he was sitting on the roof of Stark tower with his not dead boyfriend a few floors below. His actual, alive, not an alien/robot/doppleganger, not dead boyfriend. He couldn't hallucinate all of this, right? Clint/Coulson


A/N: Set post-Avengers, so spoilers. Written for Trope Bingo, 'presumed dead'.

_**Real (Touch Me and See)**_

_It will get better._

That was what people said when someone died, right? It would get better. The pain wouldn't go away but it would dull, it would fade into the background.

No one said that to Clint because the people who would have didn't know they ought to and the people who did know also knew better than to say it. Still, though, Clint was thinking it. He said it to himself sometimes because he thought maybe that would make it come true.

Phil had been gone for three months. Clint was still waiting for that to stop hurting like a knife in his guts.

Clint would know. He'd had an actual knife in his guts before.

* * *

"Barton," Fury said, gazing balefully out of one dark eye. "As of this morning, five agents have cited 'irreparable differences' as reasoning for their desire not to work with you again if at all possible."

Clint shrugged, slinging one arm casually across the back of the chair. "Yeah, well, I'd rather not work with any of them either if we can avoid it. Not sure they have what it takes to be successful in SHIELD, anyway."

Fury's eye narrowed. "Agent Hill has suggested to me that you're being difficult intentionally."

Clint gave Fury his best _who, me? _expression. It was pretty damn good - he practiced in the mirror. It was an expression he needed to use a lot.

Unsurprisingly, it failed to be effective on Fury. "Being an Avenger doesn't give you free reign around here. Shape the fuck up or get the fuck out, Barton."

"Noted, sir," Clint said and tossed a lazy salute, getting up before Fury really started going. He ran into Hill in the hall and said, "Heard you tattled on me."

Hill folded her arms across her chest. "I only told Director Fury what he already knew."

"Yeah, whatever. Maybe you should tell him he needs to get better recruits, that'd solve all our problems."

"A better recruit still wouldn't be Agent Coulson," Hill said but Clint was already down the hall.

* * *

"There's three of you," Clint said and giggled, kind of girlishly. He would have been embarrassed if he actually gave a shit. "Not sure if that's the best sort of dream or a horrible nightmare."

Natasha shifted her grip on Clint and kept leading them forward until she could dump him unceremoniously onto his bed. "You need to work on holding your alcohol better. This is embarrassing."

"Not really. I drank, like, a whole bottle. I think. Maybe? It all blurred."

"I'll leave the trashcan by your bed," Natasha said as she yanked Clint's shoes off.

He lay there and listened to her moving about, then grabbed her arm as she started to leave. "Don't leave me, Tasha," he said.

She sighed and sat lightly on the bed beside him. "It's been three months now, Clint."

Clint turned his face into the pillow. "Think I don't know that?" He felt the tips of her fingers touch his arm in the barest hint of a comforting gesture before she moved away, lying down on her back.

The soft sound of her measured breathing seemed strangely loud in the silence. "How long are you going to continue doing this?" Natasha asked.

Clint closed his eyes and didn't respond. He didn't have an answer.

* * *

Every night that Clint fell asleep next to Natasha he slept that much easier.

Every morning that Clint woke up next to Natasha he just wished she was Phil.

* * *

Natasha slid into the booth across from Clint and said, "Coffee, black," before the waitress could even open her mouth. She stared straight ahead at Clint with that careful assessing gaze that always made Clint uncomfortable enough that he had to say something.

He dragged a forkful of pancakes through a puddle of syrup on his plate. "Food's good here," he said.

Natasha waited.

"I guess you could say it's my favorite diner."

Silence.

"Phil liked it," Clint admitted because there was no point. "We used to come here after ops." It was their place, he guessed, in as much as they had a place.

"I know," Natasha said and reached across the table to take Clint's fork. She chewed thoughtfully. "Not bad."

"Phil liked the cherry pie," Clint offered, glancing up as the waitress poured Tasha's coffee. Her name was Donna and she always used to give Phil an extra large slice of pie and call him 'hon'. Now she gave Clint pitying looks like she thought he'd been dumped.

Sometimes he thought about telling her Phil was dead because he'd been stabbed through the chest just to see what sort of look she'd be giving him then.

Now, though, he forced a polite, hopefully charming smile and said, "One slice of cherry pie, please?"

"Sure thing," Donna said, her eyes all soft and sad.

So Clint turned to Natasha again because at least she never looked at him like that.

"This isn't healthy," Natasha said.

Clint scowled and wished everyone would leave him the fuck alone.

* * *

Clint was sitting on the kitchen counter in the penthouse in Stark tower, having a beer with Natasha, when it happened. One second he was looking at Natasha rolling her eyes at him and the next Phil was standing behind her shoulder.

Natasha, having registered the unannounced presence of someone behind her, whirled around, fist upraised, and then stopped.

Phil offered a tired smile. "Hi." His skin was paler than Clint remembered and he seemed somehow insubstantial, too thin.

"What the hell," Natasha said and her hands immediately went to Phil's chest, feeling him all over like she was looking for something. Phil was wearing a suit, the jacket hanging open, like he'd come by after a long day at SHIELD HQ except of course he hadn't because, oh, yeah, he'd been _dead._

Clint watched them, his mind going perfectly blank, and then he did the only thing he could think of. He hopped off the counter and ran out of the room.

He bypassed the elevator and instead went up the stairs to the roof. It was dark but the city lights cast everything in a low glow. Clint strode to the edge of the roof and sat down, hugging his arms around his knees and hunching over. He knocked a pebble over the side and watched it fall.

So Phil wasn't dead. Unless it was some kind of a trick, and considering what the Avengers faced on a disturbingly frequent basis, Clint couldn't discount that. He could be a robot or something, maybe a doppelganger, or an alien could have hijacked Phil's body.

Or he could just be Phil, come back to Clint like he'd dreamed over and over.

He wondered if he could be hallucinating. That could happen, right? Maybe Natasha had been on to something after all; maybe he'd finally gone around the bend with all his dwelling on what he didn't have anymore and whatever.

It was like there was a war waging inside him, all these conflicting thoughts and emotions and Clint didn't know what he should feel. Maybe someone would tell him.

Someone pushed the door open and walked across the roof, footsteps light but loud enough so he wouldn't be startled. Natasha sat beside him, swinging her legs over the edge, and said, "It's him."

Those two little words seemed to mean _everything. _After three months of thinking his boyfriend was dead, he was sitting on the roof of Stark tower with his not dead boyfriend a few floors below. His actual, alive, not an alien/robot/doppelganger, not dead boyfriend. He couldn't hallucinate all of this, right?

Clint stayed quiet until he couldn't anymore. "He was _dead, _Nat. He was fucking dead except somehow he wasn't and okay, Fury, I get. But how could Phil _do_ that to me? How could he just… How could he let me…" He exhaled and ran his hands through his hair. He wanted to shoot something. Why wasn't there anything for him to shoot? Where were all the sinister plots and attempts to take over the world when he needed one?

"I think maybe you should ask him that," Natasha said.

"I want to just be happy about it. And I am, fuck, I am, because he's _alive, _and I want to find him and never let him out of my sight again, but I'm not sure if what I want more is to kiss him or punch him in the face."

"He's probably wondering that too."

"Basically you're saying I should stop being a coward and go talk to him."

Amusement glinted in Natasha's eyes. "And to think people say you're the dumb one."

Clint got up, bracing himself. He wasn't sure if the prospect of facing Phil filled him more with excitement or fear. "You're the one who says that."

"Hmm. Guess you're right."

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Clint stopped halfway to the roof door and stared. "Would you mind repeating that? Maybe say it into a voice recorder?"

"Don't push your luck, Barton," Natasha said, her eyes still amused even if she wasn't quite smiling.

"Can't blame a guy for trying," Clint said and exited the roof. He had a sneaking suspicion that Natasha was only being nice to him (well, sort of nice to him) because of Phil, but Clint would take what he could get.

God. Phil. Phil was downstairs. Phil was in Tony Stark's kitchen, not dead, totally alive, alive and…

_Don't panic. Breathe._

Clint had to stop in the hall for a minute, getting himself back under control because Phil was fucking alive, Jesus, he was right there. Honestly Clint still had no idea what he was going to say. He hadn't even arrived at a conclusion about the kissing or punching thing.

Of course, the lack of a plan had never stopped him before.

When Clint stepped into the doorway, Phil was still standing in the kitchen, his shoulders slumped, looking lost and uncertain in a way that he never did. Phil was the man with a plan, with five thousand variations covering every possibility, everything that could go wrong, and even when that one thing he hadn't considered happened, he could still somehow fake his way through with confidence and surety. Phil was the guy who did research before he so much as bought a new pair of running shoes.

A familiar feeling swelled in Clint's chest that he was pretty sure was that thing the poets liked to talk about so much and he was about two seconds from saying fuck it all and running over there to fling his arms around Phil and hang on tight.

He didn't though, because he was still angry. Angry and maybe hurt.

Okay. There was no maybe about it. He was a lot hurt and he was positive it was justified.

"Clint," Phil said when his eyes alighted on Clint. His shirt was rumpled as though he had buttoned it hastily, the tails untucked and his tie hanging slightly off-center. Looked like Natasha had been very thorough in her evaluation.

"Phil." Clint's voice sounded like a croak and he swallowed, wetting his lips. "So, um, you aren't dead, then."

Phil shook his head. "Not dead."

"Were you, though? Were you ever dead?" Stranger things had happened.

"No more so than any other person who's needed their heart restarted."

"So you lied to me."

Phil winced. "I didn't actually have much input in the decision."

"But it's been three months, Phil! Three whole fucking months and you let me think you were dead!"

Clint was damned curious what defense Phil would have to that, but Phil didn't make any excuses. He only said, "I know. I'm sorry."

Well, that deflated Clint's anger pretty much immediately. He was kind of pissed about it, actually, as he felt he deserved a bit of righteous anger. He pulled a chair out at the table and sank down. "It's weird," he said, clutching his hands together in his lap. "I used to think our relationship was pretty normal. For us, anyway."

"I guess the coming back from the dead thing puts a stop to that, even if it was a bit of an exaggeration."

"It kinda does." Clint's hands were starting to ache from how hard he was clenching them together. "Why now? Why now, after three months, is it okay for me to know you're alive? If Fury was gonna lie to try and make us get our act together, why did he keep on doing it so long?"

"There was a… a coma thing."

"A coma thing?"

"I could've been dead," Phil offered, like that was a normal thing to say.

"You asshole," was all Clint could say, even if he wasn't sure he meant it.

Out of the corner of his eye Clint could see Phil approaching the table. "I am sorry, you know that, don't you? I never wanted to hurt you. I regret that more than anything."

"I know," Clint said. His hands twitched in an aborted attempt to grab hold of Phil because if he didn't check, he could still believe this was happening. He could still believe it was real. He was afraid that if he touched Phil it would be a dream, just another dream for him to wake up from, and if he didn't check he could go on pretending. Dream Phil was better than no Phil at all.

But Clint wasn't a coward so he reached out to take Phil's hand. Nothing happened. Phil didn't fade away and Clint wasn't left grasping at empty air; Phil was simply there. Clint tried to cover the way he was shaking and kissed Phil's palm, kissed his wrist over his fluttering pulse. Phil was warm and solid and _real, _real like he hadn't been until now.

Clint decided he didn't want to punch Phil at all, he really didn't. Somehow the only thing that still felt important was that Phil was _there._ Phil was alive and he was right there and Clint had always kind of figured he wouldn't get a chance to say goodbye but he'd also always kind of figured _he _would be the dead one, not Phil, and he'd never said _I love you _even though he did, he so did.

"Can I… Can I just…" Phil was staring at him, his eyes desperate and focused on Clint's mouth. Whatever showed on Clint's own face must have been convincing enough because Phil dropped to his knees and Clint leaned forward on the chair and then they were kissing.

It was just like it used to be, the feel of Phil's body against his, the taste of him, the tiny noises he made in the back of his throat that always made Clint want to throw him down on a bed and do things to him. Clint slid off the edge of his seat, practically falling into Phil, hands roaming everywhere.

He found the raised scar on Phil's chest, so close to Phil's heart, and pressed his hand over it through two layers of clothing, which was two layers too many. Goddamn scar from goddamn Loki and Phil's goddamn heart, so big that he'd had to go in by himself to try to stop an alien god or whatever the hell Loki was.

"Clint," Phil was murmuring, low and almost reverent. "Clint, please."

Clint was seriously considering ravishing him right there in Tony Stark's kitchen because Phil had been dead and now he wasn't, now he was back in Clint's arms where he belonged and Clint's impulse control had never been very good.

"If you're aiming to have sex on the floor, might I suggest the living room down the hall? There's a rug there that is much more comfortable, which I know from experience."

Clint broke away from Phil long enough to hiss, "Fuck off, Stark."

Phil chuckled into Clint's neck.

"Yeah, okay," Tony said, entirely dismissively in a way that was almost insulting. "Nice to see you again and all, Agent, and can I just say, you're looking remarkably well for a dead guy? Seriously, though, we're gonna have words when you're done with your welcome back from the dead sex. I don't appreciate lies and manipulation, or, you know, things that make Pepper cry. Just so you're prepared."

"Duly noted," Phil said solemnly.

"Good. Well, happy fucking!" Tony started to leave and then stopped. "Do you play the cello or something, Barton?"

"The fuck?" Clint said. He didn't have time for this shit, he had a boyfriend to screw.

"There was something about a cellist, but whatever." The sound of Tony's footsteps faded, fucking finally.

Phil had tensed some, which Clint suspected had to do with the whole Pepper crying thing. Clint rubbed Phil's back. "Hey. You wanna talk?"

"Not really."

"You wanna get off the floor?"

That earned him a small smile, at least. "I think that's a good idea. My body will appreciate it."

So they got up, though Clint refrained from loosening his hold of Phil. Happily Phil seemed fine with that. "I have a room here. With a bed. A really big, comfortable bed."

Phil's smile widened. "I'm glad to see your lack of subtlety hasn't changed."

"Well, you know, figured there'd be enough new things for you to get used to." Clint kept right on talking because it seemed easier, easier to babble on about things that didn't matter like Phil was only coming back from a vacation, and he'd never known when to shut up anyway. "Darcy- you remember Darcy?"Of course he did, Darcy wasn't exactly the type of person one forgot. "She came to New York with Jane and she took to palling around with Pepper, the two of them scare me a little. Tony's being a team player, or at least, as much of one as he can be. I think Tasha might be fucking Steve, but she won't admit it."

Phil blinked. He opened his mouth and closed it again.

Clint laughed. "Sorry, was that too soon? Too traumatizing? Did I rip a hole in your hero worship?"

"I think seven-year-old Phil just died," Phil replied mournfully.

It was a joke, Clint knew that, but he blanched all the same. He tightened his grip on Phil's hips, probably too tight, but it wouldn't be the first time Clint left bruises. "Just as long as grown-up Phil is okay."

Shit. What? What was he even saying?

Phil's face softened. "I'm not even going to make fun of you for saying that."

"I appreciate that. I've been through a tragic ordeal. I'm very fragile right now."

"If you're so fragile, then perhaps we shouldn't-"

"Not that fragile," Clint interrupted because he didn't even want to hear the end of that sentence.

Phil looked so fondly amused, like Clint was something slightly ridiculous but to be treasured all the same. Clint had forgotten how much he'd loved being on the receiving end of that look. "Yes, you certainly haven't changed."

"Admit it. You wouldn't want me to."

"Well, I have to admit right at this moment I'm pleased by it, but I expect when I have to read your next incident report I'll change my mind."

Clint didn't know what to do except cup his hands around Phil's face and kiss him again. "I missed you," he said, leaning his forehead against Phil's. "I really missed you." He wished he had better words to say what he meant.

"I'm here now." Phil lifted one hand to tangle his fingers with Clint's. "I promise-" He stopped, his breath hitching in a tiny laugh. "I can probably guarantee that my death won't be faked again. Probably. Or at least, you'd know about it?"

"God," Clint exclaimed, tipping his head back. "Why is this my life?"

"Because you'd be bored otherwise?"

"I don't know, I think I could do with some boredom every now and again. You know, in between the alien invasions and my boyfriend coming back from the dead."

"Liar. You'd hate it."

"Okay, yeah, I would." Clint hugged Phil close and kissed the side of his face, pressed their cheeks together. He didn't normally go for such blatantly soppy behavior, nor would Phil normally put up with it, but this was extreme circumstances even for them. "But just… not the dead thing again."

Phil's breath huffed gently against Clint's skin. He smelled like soap and aftershave and _Phil. _"I can do that."

Clint decided that maybe after, after Clint had checked every inch of Phil just to be sure, they could go for some cherry pie. He couldn't wait to see the look on Donna's face.

_**End**_


End file.
